Old Faces
by CaitlynEbsworthy
Summary: A quick upload. Sherlock returns to Baker Street.


**Hi :D I don't own Sherlock *I wish* Just a quickie as I can't think what to write next in my other thingy bob. Anyway, enjoy, I had a free two hours, for once. I would recommend playing Michael Buble' ~ End Of May to this. **

**Old Faces. **

Sherlock hadn't seen John for seven months.

John hadn't seen Sherlock for seven months.

Sherlock was alive and he knew that John was alive, but how alive, he couldn't cope, it seemed that life was becoming a struggle. Mycroft kept tabs on him for Sherlock; he made sure he didn't do anything stupid. Sherlock cared. He wouldn't have done _it_, if he'd not cared.

John was alive and thought Sherlock was dead. He wished he wasn't. He prayed he was alive. But he knew deep down, he was gone.

Sherlock sat by the fire in his brother's house, it was a huge mansion on the outskirts of London. He watched the fire crackle and explode, it was warm and soothing. He closed his eyes and listened to it rage. The snow was beginning to fall outside, Sherlock remembered the last time it snowed and he and John had been 'celebrating' New Year's Eve. He would be seeing John again soon. It was finally over. He slipped back in the chair and thought about John. He had no idea what state he would be in when he reintroduced himself to his friend. He knew John would be angry, wouldn't anyone? But he wondered if John would forgive him for going on for so long without telling him that he was alive. Mycroft walked in silently and stood behind the chair like a big ominous shadow.

"Are you ready to go back?" He said emotionlessly.

"Yes." Sherlock replied simply.

John had recently returned to Baker Street in the last three months, and for the last two of them been living there again. He'd missed it, he'd missed his home. But it was strange not having Sherlock there. Mycroft had been around and insisted that Sherlock's room be kept as it was. John had been suspicious at first but when Mycroft had said it was purely because Scotland Yard had requested so due to investigation circumstances, his hope sank again. John couldn't see why they were bothering to investigate, Sherlock committed suicide, and he had left a note. But so far nobody had actually been to the flat since Sherlock…since Sherlock died. John sat by the fire, it glowed softly as it smouldered away. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. When he opened them again he caught a glimpse of the snow falling from the sky. It settled gently on the window panes. He got up and went over to the window; he placed a hand on the glass. The last time it had snowed had been New Year's Eve. He remembered the conversation he and Sherlock had had, well; it had been more of a heated discussion rather than a conversation.

"_Oh Sherlock_." John felt a tear escape his eye.

Sherlock had asked Mycroft to drive him to Baker Street. He stood on the door step and traced the handle with his fingertips. He opened the door and stepped through. He then began the decent up the staircase. He was silent, jumping over the step that creaked. Then he reached the door to 221b. It had been so long. So long since he'd been home.

John listened. He heard something. He turned around slowly, he had expected nothing. He was wrong. So wrong. Dark curly hair, long black coat, cheekbones. Hell, that guy looked like Sherlock.

"Hello John." The man said. Wow, sounded like him too. John walked slowly towards him. He felt himself getting angrier and angrier. He stood directly in front of the man and then pulled his arm back and smacked him around the head with his fist. The man collapsed onto the floor.

John pulled Sherlock onto the sofa, supported his head with a cushion and placed a blanket over him. He wasn't angry anymore. He was the happiest man in the world.

Sherlock was out good and proper. John sat cross legged on the floor and watched him sleep. He didn't dare take his eyes off him. John watched him breath. Yes he was alive and breathing. John watched him until he woke up an hour later.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, his head hurt. His vision was a bit blurry momentarily while he gathered his thoughts.

"So you're not dead then." John was sat watching him. Sherlock rubbed his eyes. John had been crying, his checks were stained with tears and the sleeve of his cardigan was slightly damp from where he had whipped his eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I truly am John." Sherlock sat up straight and then stood up. Too quickly. He nearly collapsed but John was up in a flash and steadied him.

"Sorry about smacking you around the head." Sherlock smiled.

"I lied and you thought I was dead for seven months. It was the least I was expecting if I'm honest." Sherlock offered his hand but John through his arms around his friend instead.

"I forgive you." John muttered. Sherlock didn't know what to do. Did he hug him back? People do that don't they?

"But I haven't…"

"I don't care, your back and that's what matters." Sherlock felt his throat go dry, this happened last time he cried. He would not cry now. He hugged John back. Then they separated.

"Who knows Sherlock?" John asked as he and his friend sat down on the sofa.

"Mycroft. That's it…well and you." John sat back.

"Well, tell me how you did it. How you survived." Sherlock shook his head.

"Not now John, I've shocked you enough today. Tomorrow. Until then, stick the kettle on." John laughed and got up.

"It's good to have you back Sherlock."

"It's good to be back."

Fin


End file.
